Dragon tengen is the type of dragon to make the bed within a mountain of jewels. He was always so precise about where things went until you came along, then he's pushing everything aside to make a nice comfy spot for you, his perfect treasure.
I bring you a lil thing I wrote for my Royal AU and because I’m normal about Centross Mistvale rn so you get this. I might post it on Ao3 but it seems a bit short, even if it’s just a chapter of something.
(Writing below the cut)
There was something before this. He was sure of it. Something- family or friends. Something familiar other than the grip of the Reaver in his hands. Something before his work as Enderian’s trusted speaker- before his work as an assassin.
Something other than his skin tainted with blood (thick red or purple dripping off of the blade, glistening in the soft light the void provided).
The Reapers hands know nothing more than the swing, the smooth flow of the reaver easily crashing through skin and bone. The shape of his fists was instinct now, curling around the handle.
Some of his victims would flee- some would cry, some would scream. Some would look him in the eyes (and he would be too much of a coward to look back as he killed them too).
Squadrons, guards, armies all the same would try to fight back, he would have to give them credit for that. But he was more skilled. Stronger and faster than most, he would kill them in an instant, fleeing the sight in a flurry of a black cloak and creaking wings.
His name spread fast, word of mouth unexpectedly quick in a land of scattered islands. He would hear his name whispered as he walks through village streets, islands across islands his name was known.
The Violet Reaper
“I hear he is blessed by Enderian” people would whisper over flasks of whiskey. “What is he? Not man or Ender- still inhuman all the same.”
He became a thing of legends. A monster parents tell their kids about to keep them from going out after dark.
Rumors spread like wildfires- he would learn soon enough, when he couldn’t escape the sound of his own name.
“Y’know, I heard for the whole battle he would not stop laughing.”
“I hear he has smile so sinister that you would think the grim reaper himself smiles upon you. Maybe he is.”
“He has a reaver so sharp, it slices through you like paper- skin, bone, and all.”
“The Grim Reaper”
“The Violet Reaper”
Everywhere he went he would hear it. Every kingdom, every village, and every island. The legend spread across dimensions- a tale of the Violet Reaper, a man with bones for wings who has the skill of all of the overworld armies combined.
A man haunted by the souls of those he’s killed, voices in his head demanding more blood in the name of his goddess, a cycle to repeat many times more.
That is until it stops. The news slows after a while, no new fights, no new public massacres, and no new assignments.
The souls were impatient things, demanding a new target. Fresh blood to spill. But Centross Mistvale was nothing if not loyal.
He found ways to satiate them in the end. Finding himself often in golden fields of wheat, surprised when the act of farming seemed to quiet them.
After that, his home in the overworld was overgrown with wheat and berries, fields and orchards that he learned to take care of.
If the souls demanded blood, he would give it to them in the form of pigs or cows instead of people. The only thing red staining his hands anymore would be that of the crushed sweet berries he grew crushed under his fingers. (Sometimes, the man would find himself reaching for his blade in the comfort of his own home- hands curling around something not there.)
Soon enough, it had been years since he last heard his name spoken in villages. He wasn’t recognized here.
It was the closest he would ever get to leaving that title behind. (The necklace he wore (and eye of ender. Symbol of his loyalty that he couldn’t shake if he tried-) was still a heavy weight on his chest. The souls would tease him, but he couldn’t take it off. He was still her Speaker, after all. He will always be the Violet Reaper- no matter how much he shakes the acts and the name.)
—•=+=•—
Peace is a fickle thing.
As the Reaper, Centross almost didn’t believe in it.
But after years living in the sun, taking care of animals and crops with not a drop of human blood taken by his hand, he can feel it now.
But if course, as anything does, it didn’t last forever.
There was no fanfare to it, nothing but the crushing weight of the necklace against his chest when the book appears at his doorstep. Familiar purple and green leather and worn paper, twisted handwriting in that half cursive way Enderian writes.
Reaper,
Your next target is one Icarus Morningstar, prince and heir to the Gilded kingdom- and, my brothers child.
You are to find a way into the empty position of the prince’s bodyguard. I am making attempts to put your word in to my brother, but with how our relationship stands at the moment I am unsure he will trust a word I say.
The prince doesn’t care for their people, and cruel to others. They have killed a woman in cold blood. They have evaded a consequence for this long enough.
They are distrusting of my realm, and pose a threat to my people. If our negotiations of peace are going to last, they need to be taken care of.
I am hope to receive news of a successful mission, as you know- Violet Reaper- Failure is not an option.
I hope my trust in you is not misplaced.
- E
And just like that, his peace is gone.
He leaves for the Gilded kingdom the next morning, sun setting behind him and all too familiar weight of the reaver on his back and familiar roar of the souls reawakened in his ears.
He doesn’t look back. Nor does he think of the mug of coffee still sitting cold on the on the counter by the window, never to be drank or moved.
He doesn’t mourn the loss of peace, instead greeting the rush as an old friend.
william wisp, the wispering biplanar bisexual disaster (aka halfway through this i realized i was painting him using the bi flag colors and decided to lean into it lmao)
